My Story

Yesterday, I read a story one girl wrote about her friend who committed suicide, and I decided it was time to tell my story. Even my own brother doesn't know yet. I did tell one friend and a few people at a camp about a month ago. I had only known these people for two days and figured I would never see them again. We were all supposed to be completely honest in group discussions and the question of the day was "What was your best day?" and "What was your worst day?" I confused everyone by saying that my best day and my worst day were the same day.

Five years ago, I was suicidal. Everyday, multiple times everyday, I would think, 'if I were to kill myself right now how would I do it?' When I would get a paper cut, I couldn't help but to wonder, how much could a paper cut make you bleed, depending on where it was? But I couldn't decide how to kill myself. I didn't have access to a gun. I couldn't swallow pills, so couldn't intentionally overdose. I knew that my will power would not have won over my instincts if I tried to suffocate or drown myself. As far as I could see, that left hanging or cutting, but I had tried to cut before and that really didn't look like it was going to be a very likely option.
So, to answer the question, my best day was the day I told my mom and got help. I had been trying on my own to stop myself from thinking about suicide for weeks after I decided that I didn't really want to die. But I only faced the fact that I needed more help than what I could provide myself two days before I told my mom. I was upset and riding in the car with my dad down a dark, tree-lined highway. This was one of the times I thought 'how would I kill myself right now?' My answer: I would reach over and pull the steering wheel to send us off the road and into a tree.
That answer scared me. First of all, I might not die. Then, everyone would know that I had pulled the wheel and would make a big deal about it. Second, my dad might get hurt. Sure, it would hurt my family if I killed myself, (I had actually figured that was a good thing because then I could see who actually cared about me by who cried and who came to the funeral) but physically hurting my dad was a completely separate issue and out of the question. And worst of all, what if he died and I was totally fine? I certainly wouldn't have been able to live with myself after that. This thought was the only thing keeping me from pulling the wheel during the entire half-hour long car ride.
When we got home, I immediately told my mom that we needed to go out for a mommy/daughter lunch that weekend. We used to go out to lunch all the time when I was little and just talk about whatever, but we had both gotten busy and hadn't gone for years. So she knew something was up. I dreaded going to lunch; I didn't want anyone to know about my problem. So I stalled. We talked for two hours before she finally asked me what my deal was. I couldn't tell her. All I could say was that I was very depressed and didn't know what to do... and then I broke down in tears and ran to the bathroom. She figured the rest out on her own.
So I got help. She took me to a therapist, who I met with once a week for a year and a half. But how could this also be the worst day of my life? I was a failure. I had wanted nothing more in my life than to end my life, and I couldn't even do that for myself. I still do believe that I was a failure, because I took the easy way out.
It is really hard to sit in health class when we learn about suicide. Nobody understands. Sure, the warning signs are right, I have seen them first-hand. I lived them. But then people come out of class saying things like "Oh, I had a really bad day today. I guess I'll go home and kill myself." or "How could somebody be that stupid and that weak?" But people who actually succeed in committing suicide are the strong ones. It is the body's natural tendency to fight to live and their will overcame that. They struggled for who knows how long and finally came to a conclusion that worked for them. Life is easy compared to that decision. That decision is hard. I try to remember that whenever I am upset today. Nothing in my life could ever possibly be as hard as trying to decide how to kill myself.

I looked around the discussion group at the end of my story. Many were crying. The shy girl sitting next to me kept trying to give me a hug. Our leader, a guy who was always smiling, had a blank face and wouldn't make eye contact with me. We were all silent for a few minutes, before someone ran up the stairs near where we were sitting with a giant balloon giraffe. After that, I can only upgrade the group mentality to quietly somber.
At the end of the camp, we all had to write each other "warm fuzzy" notes. Three people in my group told me how strong and brave they thought I was. Then I came to Brooke's note. Brooke told me that she hated camp. That it was the most ridiculous thing that she had ever done. She hated all of the activities and most of the people, they were all much too outgoing. and I was outgoing too... but I was the only good thing about camp. I had kept her "smiling and a little bit enthused". She couldn't believe that I had ever been so disenchanted with life.
And so, I thank you, Brooke, for showing me just how far I have come from that dark place five years ago. No twelve year-old should ever be faced with that decision. And now that I can talk about my experience, maybe I can help make some other twelve year-old's life a little bit brighter by showing them that there is hope. Or maybe I will start with just telling my school, and the people who made me feel so hopeless. And maybe then people might stop and think before being such jerk offs to each other, and consider that maybe their one comment is that last of many that have pushed some poor schmuck too far over the edge.